


One For Eighty-Three

by orphean



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s02e03 Minefield, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 18:49:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15467736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: Malcolm Reed had tried very, very hard not to fall in love with Trip Tucker.--Spoilers For Minefield (2.03).





	One For Eighty-Three

Malcolm Reed had tried very, very hard not to fall in love with Trip Tucker.

At first it was easy, because when they first met, Malcolm hadn’t liked him. Not one bit. He was abrasive and smarmy, arrogant and smug. Too young to be so promoted, Malcolm found himself wondering, those first few days, just what kind of nepotism allowed him to receive this posting. He watched Archer’s and Trip’s easy friendship, their playful banter and teasing back-and-forths, and he was jealous of it. This jealousy grew stronger as time passed, and he yearned to have what Archer had.

A friend, that’s what he wanted. Nothing else.

Trip was so... Texan. Except he wasn’t Texan, was he? He was from Florida, probably born and raised in some godforsaken swamp with more alligators than people. Florida. He tried to imitate Trip’s accent in the mirror, trying to form the word the way he did, opening his mouth wide and let that Southern confidence pour out. Flaw-rid-uh. It never sounded right, and he bounced off another few states in equally terrible accents – New York, Chicago, Texas – in case someone was listening in. In Malcolm’s mind, Texas and Florida, being neighbours, were pretty much the same thing. But then again, Oxfordshire and Warwickshire were nothing alike. What did he really know about Florida? He knew about the alligators. That was pretty much it. Right, then: Trip was so _American_. Malcolm had never understood the breezy American confidence, the grin in the face of disaster and the certainty that everything would be alright. Before, he had never been very interested in trying to understand it. But he wanted to understand Trip.

Malcolm wanted to ask, to draw Trip out with questions about who he was and what he loved. He wanted to paint a picture of the man in precise measures, not broad strokes. Every detail of his life that he let slip, Malcolm tucked away, filling in another inch of the immense canvas that was Charles Tucker. He listened, and didn’t speak much. He felt certain that the more he spoke, the less likely it was that Trip would want him. No, that’s not what he meant. He meant: the less likely it was that Trip would want to be his friend.

It only took a few weeks before he had started thinking of him as _Trip_ , not as _Commander_ or _Tucker_ or any other reasonable and appropriate way of address. It was all Archer’s fault, and his insistence on keeping it friendly among the staff. Every time he called _him_ Malcolm, he felt the hair on his arms rise. What would his father say? He, at least, stayed proper. He didn’t call Trip by his first name. But that was how he thought of him. Trip, Trip, Trip. Like a dripping faucet, he wouldn’t leave Malcolm’s thoughts alone.

So, maybe Trip’s smile was like the sun breaking through an overcast sky. Perhaps every time Trip looked at him Malcolm could feel a thrill grow from the depths of his stomach and extend throughout his entire body. It was possible that every dream he dreamt was of him. Malcolm knew how unreasonable all of these things were, and he was fine with it.

 

* * *

 

The pain was numbing, but not as numbing as the painkiller Phlox insisted on – _you’ll feel better in a moment_ , he promised. And Malcolm did feel better, but he also felt unfocused, ungrounded and freer than he had felt for years. When Trip stormed into the room and stopped by his biobed, the ceiling light behind his head gave him a shining halo. Heavenly, Malcolm thought, and he heard his insistent heart that he was unable to keep still when he was with Trip.

‘You stupid son of a bitch!’ Trip’s voice was raised, angry and rugged. Malcolm’s affected mind lingered on the melody of his accent, the emotion in the words. Phlox, attending to one of his bats, raised his eyebrows and said that maybe he should give them a moment alone. Seconds later, he was gone. ‘Captain Archer told me–' and Trip swallowed, a hand through his hair, too angry to even finish the sentence on his first try, ‘Captain Archer said you were going to die. Die, Malcolm. What the hell were you thinking?!’

‘To quote our favourite Vulcan, it was logical.’ His brain wasn’t quite keeping up with the conversation, too preoccupied with the fact that Trip had been worried about _him_ , and that he was on the receiving end of such glorious emotion. ‘One life for eighty-three doesn’t seem so bad.’

‘Don’t give me that shit. It wouldn’t have been worth it. It’s _your_ life.’

Maybe Trip moved very fast, or maybe the drugs Phlox had given him were stronger than he ha expected, but suddenly, before Malcolm was quite aware of it, Trip’s fingers caught him by the jaw, lifting his head and pressing their lips together. All things considered, it wasn’t a very good kiss, Trip’s lips too dry and Malcolm too surprised to do anything but make the smallest noise against Trip’s mouth, but Malcolm felt the world stop. Trip pulled away and his eyes were wide, sad and relieved.

‘It wouldn’t have been worth it.’ Trip repeated, his thumb tracing over Malcolm’s jaw, before he removed his hand, bit his lip, and looked away. His face was flushed. ‘The ship’s nothing without you.’

Malcolm opened his mouth, hoping he would find something witty, something sufficiently sarcastic, to say. There was nothing but the memory of Trip’s mouth on his. He pushed himself up from the half-lying position to a sitting position to bring their faces closer. Trip watched him, his breath short and his eyes chasing over his face.

‘I’m alive,’ Malcolm said at last, because something had to be said, because if he didn’t, then Trip might leave and that thought hurt more than the numb pain from his leg. He found himself transfixed by Trip’s mouth: the curve of it, how he had bit his lower lip and now, mouth half-open, the bitten part blossoming with a darker pink.

‘You are alive, though no thanks to you.’ Trip’s hand came to rest on Malcolm’s shoulder, a short squeeze of encouragement. His gaze flickered and his fingers brushed over Malcolm’s uniform, more of a caress than the casual touch he probably tried to play it off as. ‘Can I?’

The second kiss was hesitant and slow, Trip’s hand cupping his face and Malcolm’s palm pressed into the biobed to push himself closer. Then, Malcolm dared to lift a hand and touch Trip’s face, and this changed the kiss, deeper and faster now, both catching half-breaths between the kisses. It wasn’t sustainable, but in that moment, that didn’t matter. The kiss only broke when Malcolm tried to move further up the biobed, to get closer still to Trip, and somehow, through the haze of the painkillers, he twisted his injured leg, yelping in pain.

Trip looked worried, a comforting thumb tracing a pattern over Malcolm’s cheekbone.

‘You okay?’ He asked, as they heard Phlox call from the other room.

‘You alright there, Lieutenant?’ Malcolm suddenly realised how mortifying it would have been if Phlox had walked in on them. How would he react? How would anyone on the ship react if they knew? He swallowed and leaned into Trip’s touch.

‘Fine, Doctor,’ he said, hoping his voice carried, and that his voice didn’t quaver as much as he felt it did. Trip, as though sensing his unease and interpreting it as directed at him, not at Phlox, removed his hands, stuffing them deep in his pockets.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘No, it’s –' and what could he say? He wanted to ask Trip to touch him again, to kiss him again, to hold him and damn his injury to hell, but he didn’t know how to ask. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. And you?’

Trip laughed, his cheeks rosy and his eyes twinkling.

‘I could be a lot worse.’ He licked his lips, studying Malcolm’s face and glancing down at his mouth more than once. ‘I – um, I guess I ought to let you rest.’

‘I think that would make doctor Phlox happy.’

Malcolm looked away, because Trip was looking at him like he was precious and worthy and it was all too much. He felt Trip’s hand over his own, the warmth of his calloused fingers, the gentle stroking of his thumb over the back of his hand. He dared a glance back at Trip, and his smile was new and nervous. That smiled filled him so that he even forgot the pain in his leg for a moment.

‘When you get out of sickbay –’ Trip hesitated, their fingers interlaced, his hand squeezing hard, ‘will you let me know? I’d like to see you. If that’s alright.’

‘I’d like that.’ Malcolm had no idea how long they just looked at each other. He heard Phlox approaching and Trip pulled away his hand, mouthing _I’m sorry_ and making a face in apology.

‘Commander, I think Lieutenant Reed needs some rest, hmm?’

‘Yes, yes, sure. Um, feel better.’ Trip lifted hand and gave an awkward wave before he left. Malcolm watched him go, and his heart jumped when Trip turned at the last moment, flashing a final nervous smile back at him. _See you later_ , he mouthed as the sickbay doors closed.

‘I’m going to give you something to help you sleep. I think your leg might keep you awake if I don’t.’ Malcolm nodded, leaning his head to accept the sedative. His mind was still stuck on Trip, and his mouth, and his worry, and that it had actually happened. This wasn’t a fever dream, was it? No, no. This was real.

Malcolm drifted off, sure that he would dream of Trip, and equally sure that when he woke up, Trip would be there for him.


End file.
